I guess we really are all mutts.

I just found out that I have a great great great great great grandfather that was Japanese. This explains so much.

Annnnd an unhealthy obsession with Daphne Guinness..

Guinness is a walking piece of art with Cruella DeVille hair and a coffee and cigarettes diet. I was browsing Italian Vogue's website and trying to avoid the slave jewelry link, (bad form guys) and I found the pictures from a Valentino show. The guest list was tip top and draped head to louboutin's in black. I scroll scroll scroll and come across this thing...This thing! In chopsticks and a bright flowing dress that went from purple to fusha to red and black. I was thinking to myself, "what is this walking butterfly in a cocoon?" Looked into it a bit more, and apparently she has been into using fashion as an art form for a while now. She is now 40 something and seems to just be getting better. She has an obsession with armor. That alone makes her cool (and the gang). She has had her own window in Barneys displaying some sort of store front street art performance. Awesome. AND bestie's with the late, the great Alexander McQueen. Gold star!Gold stars for all!
I'm sure she is full of sheit but is quite the walking comic strip. I dig it.

Hello, my name is Jackie and I Polyvore.

Find me on Polyvore

Yes! no Yes! WAKE UP!

May your photo shoot today go swimmingly, babe. Xx

Electro Sandies

GET in there guys.

And now a reading from the book of Schlep......glory to you of lord.

My family didn't travel much. Biggest trips of my childhood were before I started school. My mother worked everyday in her beauty parlor that was in the storefront of our house. My father, who didn't want a job, was stuck with me and dragged me seven days a week to various racetracks within driving distance of Buffalo. Lots of traveling. And boy, was it fun. I got to starve all day long, and finally maybe get a hot dog and a cup of warm water, while watching my father lose my mother's hard-earned pay.

I took a trip alone on my bicycle once - as far as I could go - real real far, five neighborhoods away, to a part of Buffalo called the Fruit Belt. The street names had fruit names, you know? Like Banana Street. Let's just say, in this neighborhood there were more than a handful of blacks. Actually, I think I was the only whitey there that day. Soon I was mugged, beaten down and robbed of the only nickel in my pocket by three seventeen-year-old black kids. I was six. When I got home, my father beat me up and told me I was a pussy-fagot. He said why didn't I bring them home to rob the whole house? That was my first trip. I guess you could say travellin's in my blood.

As a kid, I had only seen airplanes on TV. I was from boat-people. I didn't know anybody who actually went on a plane until I was sixteen and living in New York City. I had to hitchhike there from Buffalo. One fag who gave me a ride tried to blow me so I made him let me out. I didn't get another lift for seven hours. It was cold that day.

My first airplane ride was to Europe. I went through one of those messenger services where you get to go for free if you carry a package on the plane. I was seventeen then. It was real easy. All I had to do was sleep at the airport for four or five days waiting for a package that needed to be carried to somewhere in Europe. When I got there all I had to do was find some free food and a place to stay and figure out a way back. Why the hell would poor people travel by plane? Why would anyone? It's such a schlep. A big nasty, schlep. Why would anybody get on a plane unless they were making millions to travel? I really don't get it. People are stinky and planes are stinky too, they're filled with disease. They're so mean at the airport and it's expensive and dirty, it's a hassle. A pure hassle and a pure schlep. Who the fuck would fly on a plane in coach? It's so creepy. A vacation should be sitting in bed eating chips and dips, watching TV, and being massaged and blown by a robot - that's a vacation. That's travelling. Schlepping overseas makes no sense, it's dumb, especially to France, which was the first place I went. How much cheese, tobacco, caffeine, wine and sugar can one filthy, French person shove into their bodies in one day? Not even the filthy polluted air of Paris could cut down the stench off those fermented French assholes.

I smoked pot twice in my life. Pot is bad. I don't like it. I don't like pot people. It's evil, and so are all the people who smoke it. When I take over the world, the first thing I do is to put pot-smokers in a room and tape them together. Anyway, because I was a little afraid of flying, some asshole suggested I smoke a joint on the plane and he gave me one. He must have been a pusher. Remember when people could smoke cigarettes on a plane? They'd smoke the whole flight like pigs. Filthy pigs. Thank God they stopped that. Anyway, I went into the bathroom of the plane and lit up the joint. Soon a Beetle song got stuck in my head and in minutes I was freaking out. I guess it was a month later that I was almost myself again. That was the worst flight of my miserable life. Imagine - pot and people and airplanes, all going to France - four wrongs don't make a right. Right?

Anyway, from France by train I wound up in Italy to fly back to New York from Rome. Just because my last name is Gallo and my parents are from Sicily, don't think I relate to those monkeys either. Real Italians are from Buffalo. At one point on the train ride from France to Italy Italian soldiers filled it up so there was standing room only. I was pressed up against the wall near a window and something blew into my eye and blinded me. By the time I got to Rome my eye was swelled up shut. I stayed at the airport half blind and very hungry, making sad faces 'till someone offered me food. It was old bread and boy was it good, except for the green parts.

My flight home was on 'Alitalia'. All right. I fucked myself up with pot going to France, so I'm already a little edgy about flying, I'm just edgy, you know? I'm having flashbacks, whatever... I'm scared, OK? I'm not chicken of the plane crashing, kill me please, go ahead, do me a favor - no, I'm just afraid of my own sick mind locked in a plane. Anyway the flight is overbooked by hundreds. Somehow a hundred people had the same ticket as another hundred people, so they start trying to get people off the plane. I wouldn't budge. After about three fuckin' hours of this shit, they bribe enough dumb travelers off the plane to take off.

Sitting on my right is a fat Italian woman dressed in all black, with her face buried in a black handkerchief, bent over, rocking back and forth, crying for somebody who died. Who knows who. If it were me, I'd be left in my house for six months before anybody noticed I was dead. Somebody would come over to borrow money and they'd find me. They be torn. Torn between whether they should just empty my pockets and leave, or report me dead. Anyway, this old fatass, lady greaseball makes me real nervous with her rocking back and forth and crying. I hate it when chicks cry. They always cry. I didn't do nothin'. Seated to my left was another old bastard, an old Italian man greaseball. There's a lot of old people in Italy, I guess 'cause they never work. All they do is eat. God forbid they should work.

Anyway, halfway through this miserable flight, the Old Italian man greaseball to my left starts choking and gasping for air. He's convulsing. Some slut stewardesses come over and eventually one of the monkey pilots comes with a medical bag. They clear about six of us away while they work on him. I see needles go into his chest, the whole thing is clear, I have a bad feeling. Now there's not one extra fucking seat on this plane so they prop the old bastard in his chair facing out the window with some blankets all over him and they force me to sit back down next to him. I know the guy's dead. He's cold and he's stiff. He's dead, OK? Dead. Dead, dead, dead. They tell me he's just sleeping and he's going to be fine. I fly four more hours next to a dead guy and a crying woman. Both stinky. The Italian man greaseball still with some drool hanging from his mouth. Hanging there uninvited like a rubberized, lazy icicle.

You know, when I negotiate a contract for an acting job if I have to fly my whole salary for the job is based on the pain of the flight. If I have to be in Europe, the price is double. If I have to go to South America or other primitive places, it's triple. You couldn't pay me enough to go to a place like Israel, or Morocco, or Korea, or Albania, or Spain. For a million bucks I wouldn't even go to Harlem. However, I would consider parts of Austria and Germany.

My beautiful home is in New York City. I used to love coming home to New York City from some horrible travelling. It's sad though, when I go back to New York now, it's not the same. How could it be exciting to go back home to a city where a born rich kid like that mini-dwarf, faggot, date-raper Harmony Korine lives. What happened to New York? Remember the old days when a girl like Connecticut Chloe Sevigny would be lucky to blow for a living? David LaChapelle was just an average, purse-snatching, faggot busboy, coke-whore, cleaning up Studio 54? I'm so happy I have a mansion in LA. If that sephartic Guy Osery didn't live in LA, it really would be a perfect city.

I like driving. I'm in my car, and I'm all alone, or I'm in my car and I'm being blown, driving alone or being blown. I get some gas, I get some ass, and no one with me is smoking grass, and if I want to I sure can pass. Drivin' drivin' all alone, with no one no one on my back. Just me alone me alone, in my big black Cadillac.

The Big Schlep
(Essay for Dutch Magazine, August 2000)
By Vincent Gallo

Bud Clay

This is just a cool shot of Vinny G (Bud Clay) in his uber self indulgent yet lovely 2003 flick The Brown Bunny. (for mature audiences) Chloë Sevigny's parents must be so proud.

Gallons

Q. So what should we talk about?

V. What should we talk about? I don’t know, I really have nothing to say anymore, this is already uncomfortable. I’m talking to a journalist. I feel the pain coming already. The brutal pain, when one day I should read your edit of whatever I say, because no matter what I say, no matter how I say it, no matter it’s tone, it’s frequency range, it’s decibel level or the way in which I put the words together, no matter my intentions and no matter the truth, what I’ll read one day will be a chastised, manipulated abortion of your misunderstandings, your manipulations, your agenda and your amateur use of the English language.

Q. How can I do that if this is a Question and Answer?

V. You’ll edit out the questions that I give answers to that you don’t like or YOU don’t feel are important or that offend YOU or offend anyone who controls your magazine. I will also be stuck answering your questions. Besides, the best interview of Vincent Gallo was done by Vincent Gallo. The best articles about Vincent Gallo were written by Vincent Gallo, the best acting performance of Vincent Gallo was directed and edited by Vincent Gallo from a screenplay written by Vincent Gallo, even the best photographs of Vincent Gallo were taken by Vincent Gallo. So you see, this is painful for me.

Q. This is why my first question was, what do you want to talk about?, because I don’t have an agenda here.

V. Let’s talk about what a wonderful president George Bush has been so far.Let’s talk about how ridiculous handicap parking is. Let’s talk about why the Puertoricans think they need to have a parade down fifth avenue. Or for that matter why the gays do too. Why isn’t the Veterans Day parade down fifth avenue? The people who secure our nation get a couple blocks in Brooklyn while the fags and spics get Fifth Avenue.
Let’s talk about revenge.

Q. That was at the top of my list. It’s a recurrent theme of yours, maybe Buffalo 66 was some sort of revenge on your parents?

V. I’m clearly a small-minded person, with my own petty grievances. Hopefully, my work transcends my own petty grievances and small-minded nature. It’s best for me to remain small-minded on an emotional level and broad-minded on a conceptual level. It doesn’t matter whatever it is that makes me do my work. Neurosis, obsession, wanting people to like me, wanting my parents to feel bad for underrating me, making a lot of money, power, social status, wanting girls to like me or just to meet one girl on a job. All of this doesn’t matter as long as the work that I do to achieve these small-minded needs is a lot more interesting than me and my reasons for making it.

Q. Was Buffalo 66 autobiographical then?

V. Not at all, it’s a very conceptual film with a lot of attention and focus put on its aesthetic sensibility. Although, the characters of the mother and father are very much like my mother and father, they could have been like anybody’s parents. The concept was to invent two fictional characters that wind up in my parent’s house. Here’s the point; I feel that when you or anyone else refers to that film as "autobiographical" what you are really doing is creating a sense or an idea that I didn’t really write the script. It sort of wrote itself. And since I am playing myself, I’m not really acting and since I’m not really acting and the script wrote itself then the film sort of directs itself. Well, it wasn’t autobiographical, it’s a real screenplay and a real performance and a real soundtrack.

Q. About this small-mindedness, I’m curious how do you transcend that? How do you take your head out of this small-minded space to create?

V. You mean, how can I create when I’m focused on petty grievances how can I then pull away from that pettiness? And think about more broad-minded things? Well it’s an old habit from childhood, I lived in a very petty environment that I had to deal with but I always thought of things outside that environment. I’ve developed the capacity to go back and forth from being easy to antagonize and easily made to feel poorly to thinking in a very focused way about way bigger more conceptual things. Or spending a lot of time focusing on aesthetics. Did you hear my record?

Q. Yes, I thought it was beautiful.

V. Well, I only spent about six hours of actual recording but the whole album took about two years to make. Most of the time was spent inventing the studio. I had already spent twenty years collecting rare equipment, begging difficult people to fix it in a special way which is always against the way that they want to do it. Because I have to have it done in a certain way. And so most of the time I’m screaming and yelling and throwing things and begging people to sell me things and begging them to fix them the right way and I’m getting depressed because someone fucks it up. He fucks it up and then he fucks it up and one day it works and I record a song (hums a few bars). And then something brakes again and then I’m back in my bad groove again, so the energy around that recording was very unpleasant, very uneasy, very hectic, very painful, very aggressive and violent and unhappy and angry and desperate, really desperate as if every single thing meant everything, every detail meant so much. The type of cable, the color of the cable. I wanted all the power lines to be red and all the microphone cables to be black and all the patch cables to be brown. There was one patch cable that was black, it bugged me so much…it was on a weekend, those kind of stores are closed on Saturday and Sunday so I stopped recording until I changed it on Monday. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know. Ever since my psychiatrist died over a year ago, I have not been doing well.

Q. You’re serious. You wouldn’t lie to me, right?

V. No, I wouldn’t lie, especially about that. I had a very good doctor named Malcolm Hill. Smartest guy in the world. I saw him for about twelve years. Well, maybe I didn’t go for about three years of it, from work and things. About a year and a half ago his office was closed one day, for no reason. Couple weeks later, someone finally returned my messages and told me he was sick. A month after that, there was an announcement on his answering machine notifying everybody that he had passed away. I never felt such a loss from anyone’s death in my life. No one else’s death could feel that bad to me. At the time of his death, I was also having a difficult time in my relationship with my girlfriend. It was the most serious relationship of my life, she was the love of my life, and our problems were coming from things that are difficult to explain. And eventually, my relationship with my girlfriend ended. I haven’t been doing well at all because I don’t have a constant relationship where I can talk about what I’m thinking, and how I’m feeling and how I’m acting.

Q. You could just do interviews.

V. No, you don’t understand, when I talk to my psychiatrist Dr. Hill, it never felt bad in the end. It always feels bad in the end doing an interview. Always.

Q. Is there any room for pleasantness in your life?

V. I have more fun, and I have more things that I like and care about than anyone else I know. But I also have more things that make me feel unpleasant. I remember when I was 16 years old and I moved to New York City, I met this square girl and one day went to her house to try and fuck her and stuff. She was very pretty and clean and nice and she was older. She introduced me to some of her boring college friends who were going to Brown University. At 16, I already owned 4,500 albums. Some of them, I worked whole summers to buy. I loved my records, 4,500 records is tons of music to like. One day, I go on this trip with this girl and her friends; it’s the late seventies, the beginning of really bad radio on the East Coast. We’re all driving in a car and the radio is blasting some shitty music. I make a few comments about the music and begged them to change the channel, telling them; "this crappy song is killing me". They all gave me dirty looks and one of them says; "you’re so negative, you don’t like anything". And I thought to myself, "I don’t like anything?"…I spent every penny I ever made in my life on records, and because I’m not satisfied with main stream radio, I’m negative?

Q. Does your beautiful white dog have a name?

V. No, she has no name. I thought of calling her ‘The only girl who has never lied to me yet’.

Q. Speaking of your dog and this new LP, I was wondering if there’s any story about the song called Laura.

V. No.

Q. What about ‘My beautiful white dog’?

V. I gave the song that title because I wanted her to be included. I didn’t even have her when I made the song. Though sometimes I’ll start off making work by beginning with a good title.

Q. Can you trust anyone?

V. No.

Q. How did you take Joey Ramone’s death?

V. Johnny Ramone is my best friend. Johnny and Joey had not been friendly or speaking for fifteen years. So I never got to know Joey. Anyway, Deedee was my favorite in the band and Tommy seemed to be the brains of the band, Marky sucked. Joey Ramone though was clearly one of the most original singers of all time. And he was the sweetest guy. And his death is very sad.

ANTHONY KAUFMAN INTERVIEWS
VINCENT GALLO
FOR SOMA, NOVEMBER 2001

Hello

Get over it. I know I am....Calm down

My bday month as been sub par. Bad news bears yesterday. So what better way to take a few laps in my own pool of Debbie Downer doodoo, then to get back on my Vincent Gallo kick. I'm fully aware of how annoying it will be. I have accepted it. I'll be the junk man to your fix if you are ever in need of bitter bitter Billy Brown blunders. So instead of being blue come have a chuckle or two at the erotic chaotic Gallo rants and tantrums. This is a cerebrial as my blog will get. I think I'm going to use Gallo as a medium for my sadness and anger. Through his smallmindedness and spite I will take my tonge in cheak approach with most things in my life and filter it through eachother so that they in a way wash clean through the other side. Like Andy Dufresne. Quick some body call the waaaambulance.

Oldies

Hahaha these were my pictures from myspace days. I didn't have pictures of friends, just fictitious friends and pix of the ones that I talk to in my head on a daily

From head to toe:

Vince Gallo
Julie Newmar
Studio 54
Deb Harry
The Carrie Nations
John Bonham
Billy Joel
The Carrie Nations at Zmans
Bianca Jagger

Drop it

Peter Burgetti

I will never understand how some people with money treat others that don't have what they do. There is a fine line between arrogance and aloofness. Being the CEO or owner of a business doesn't mean shit. If there is anything I can't stand, it is bragging about how much money you have or how many companies you own. I have met many of these types of people working a front desk job in the Costa Mesa/Newport area. We see everything from attorneys, musicians, athletes and tv personality's (c list celebs but tv personalities none the less) and none of them have been as non shalant and as care free with their stupidity then some of our "more fortunate" patients or as Molly Ringwald a la Pretty in Pink would call them "Richies". I just don't know how some people with money act the way they act in public. And I say SOME because the devil always has an advocate and there are in fact some trust fund babies out there or even hard workers that have made their millions and are still down to earth cool folks that can have a normal conversation and look you in the eye while doing it. Everyday Joe shit. But it seems like there always has to be one troglodyte that has to ruin a good morning with something stupid to say. Here are some examples of what that would look and or sound like.

* "Why are the lights so dim in here? Can't afford the light bill?"
* "Well I don't work a desk job so I wouldn't know."
* "Time is money so hurry up!"
* "Put it on my tab."
* Throwing money at someone when you are nowhere near a strip club is never fucking cool. Never.
* Totally disregarding a NO CELL phone sign even when it is turned and pointed directly at you. On purpose.

I could go on but I won't. I'm tired. Moral or the story is treat others the way you would like to be treated. Or better yet talk to others the way you would like your grandparents or parents talked to. Everyone is entitled to have a bad day. But when being a dick to others becomes the norm for you, it's time to take a long hard look at yourself and realize that you are not perfect. You are human and you are no better then any another person no matter how much money you make a year or which building is your on PCH. Because before you know it, you will have tried the patients of a really nice person and she will feel like the only thing she can do to retort is to blog about you, Peter Burgetti. (I have changed the last name because you all don't know my Father aka I'll find your ass)

Auds to the Heps

She can do anything and make it look classy.

Photos by: Richard Avedon

Mad Men

I guess I makes sense to keep things clean and classy and end on a high note. Since the decision to end Mad Men by the 6th season was in the creators hands, I think Weiner must have subconsciously knew that the Mad fans would lose interest if they saw Draper in bell bottoms or Campbell sent off to Vietnam. But is he nuts? Ok, yes, it would loose the cool vibe that the whole show gives off but what do people like more then watching a falling star? I think many would love to see Draper pay for his sins and "Red's" dreams of being a Dr.'s wife and a stay at home mom go up in flames. I didn't care for her racist comments....Annnnyway my heart is sad. The writers have a TON of work on their hands. They have people all over ummm Costa Mesa with bated breath. Don't screw it up guys!

Honeycomb

If I were an instillation, I would morph into a melty honeycomb. As seen here.

Happy Birthday

Sweet Fancy Moses!!

But Mooooooomm! They are on sale! Only 438.00 originally priced at 875.00....Shit.

Opening Ceremony : Charles Anastase Althea Wedge

Dear Chapter One

Dear Chapter One,

I have been thinking about you a lot today. Remember when I saw that the Lamb Burger was taken off the menu and I was like .."oh nooo" Well I'm hoping I get to visit you again soon. I really enjoy Sundays with you and how you fill my belly ever so gently, kinda like the same way models that eat cotton balls to stay thin or be fake full, but in a good way. You give me the perfect amount of deliciousness and just the right amount of Jameson to mark the beginning of the end of my weekend. Please don't become damaged goods aka a hipster hangout filled with Justin Bobby's and oceans of RayBan's. I understand you can't help your location, but stay true blue to our special Sundays. Please. I miss you!

Love, Stevie Stills Xx

Conversations with Lil Joe

Me: Hi! Thank you so much for my card! You have a way with words! That must be where I get it from. haha love you mucho.

Lil Joe: When it comes to people close to the heart words just flow out! Just remember one thing....They are not just words! They are true feelings and emotions that I have for you and all my loved ones. Love you a lot and hope to see you soon!

Me: Me too! Maybe we were writers in a past life? haha I love you and appreciate your realness. It is rare nowa days. Xx

Lil Joe: Ahaaaaah! Now you're saying I'm an odd ball? Just joshing! Have a wonderful day manana with nothing but happiness and good feelings. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! My regards to Ian.

Me: Hahhaa never! I will try. I might have jury duty. Sucks! But oh well, I'll just say everyone is guilty on my bday. Haha have an awesome Tuesday! Get into some trouble!

Lil Joe: I'm in trouble now but what the hey! Life is too short to worry about the small stuff. And on your bday give everyone the chair or the needle!

<3 <3 <3